Queen of Witches
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: A race-bent, gender-bent AU in which being a witch is the least of Miss Potter's worries. However, her newfound school, new friends, and a whole new world seems to be a safe haven. Social justice never felt so good! And Hermione can vouch for that.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: _

_I do not own Harry Potter_

_This was in no way intended to offend anyone of any creed. I am Arab and female myself._

_Only two people are race bent: Harry and Hermione. _

_Only Harry is gender bent._

_I chose Harry's female name after looking up meaning for "Harry" (prince). Amira means "Princess". Thank you for reading! _

* * *

The swing set rattled. Chains rattled, followed by a meek groaning from the wooden pole holding it together. It continued that way, Amira pumping her legs through the air. She pushed forwards, her toes pointing up until she could almost throw herself off, and then glided back down in an arc.

Each time she reached the zenith, she was tempted to let go and fly off the set. Not because she was especially lonely or upset, although she was those things, but because the last time she did that she really did soar in the air for a few moments. She glided down gracefully, her skirt ruffled at her sides, and her body unharmed. Her mouth hung open, her head titled back. Now, how had that happened?

She approached the time again, her fingers sweaty, but swooped back down before she let go. She was too afraid. Besides, it was getting late again. She reluctantly slowed down. Her black curls drifted by her face, gliding by her head and bouncing at her shoulders.

Her feet hit the ground. She sat still, drifting in restless circles. What new tortures awaited her at home? What would Aunt Petunia condemn her to do now? What gimmicks would Dudley, her ugly, oversized cousin want to practice? He had already grown past the phase of pulling her hair and beating her up when no one was looking. He would probably mock her cloths, which once upon a time were his when he was the size and shape of a normal boy.

It would be worse if she made them wait.

Amira stood up, dusting her pants off, hitching them higher up her lanky body, and tucked the excess folds of the sweatshirt, also once Dudley's, into it so it wouldn't slip off. She walked back home.

"Where have you been?"

Amira stopped. She knew that tone. She froze her features, her brown eyes glazed over with impassiveness, and tightened her stance. She knew where it was going.

Aunt Petunia stood near the doorway. Her tart lips were twisted in resentment. "If my Dudley-kins's birthday is called off because _you _decided to run away you'll never here the last of it."

Amira waited. She expected something far worse. It never came. Petunia was too busy preparing for her darling son's birthday. Amira's own special day had flown by unnoticed.

Sometimes on her birthdays, if she got lucky, she would get a hair tie from Petunia or a shoelace from Dudley. And, if she was even luckier, a school friend - or at least a girl who wasn't so mean to her - would drop by and give her a skirt or book or maybe some pocket money. Not that Amira's school situation was any better than the at-home one. But that's how things are, and she didn't feel like she could complain.

She went to her cupboard, spotting Uncle Vernon and Dudley watching the television. A news story came on about some attack or unrest in the world. She opened the door and felt the skin on the back of her neck prickle.

"Hey, it's your people, causing problems again!" Dudley said.

"Really?" Amira turned around, "I didn't know pigs could understand bloodlines."

It was weak but she was desperate. She shut the door to her cupboard before they could process her insult.

. . .

_The Potters were really hoping for a boy, now weren't they?_

_Yes, they were. But she's a lovely child._

The voices echoed somewhere very far away, but each word was clear and sharp.

_Do you think the scar would cause problems along the way? _

_Do you really think a girl's worth is based solely on her looks?_

_Of course not. But not everyone thinks that way._

_Yes, that's true. _

Two women's voices. Whose? Amira's mind moved groggily. She folded the information over in her head, but nothing matched. The jigsaw pieces didn't fit.

_She has a future ahead of her. _

A pause.

_That's quite a big thing to hope for. _

_Not too big. When the time comes it will be manageable._

_The closer you get to something the bigger it gets, though. _

_Not in terms of time. _

She half expected them to cackle, with thunder blossoming against a dark backdrop. **By the pricking of my thumbs/something wicked this way comes! **Then a witch to break off, her lame eye cocked at the entrance. **Open locks/whoever knocks** That would be silly, however.

The dream was sliced in half, splitting into green lighting. And pain. The electrifying jolt crashed into Amira. She flung her eyes open, sweating, and the scar at her forehead stinging. She reached towards it, finding that she had forgotten to take her glasses off, and patted it lighting. Her fingers met damp skin and calloused flesh.

The dream's ripples rolled through her for another few minutes, until her breathing regained tempo. She pulled her glasses off and set them aside, placing her palms to her face. It happened again.

They called it PTSD when she first woke up screaming in pain at the blazing green and the flashes of red hair. She asked where she would have even seen green like that. Petunia had interfered, telling Amira that it was when her parents had passed away in a car crash. Green lights sped by, probably. She was just a baby in the backseat, unaware.

"Careless girl your mother was." Petunia would add.

Amira turned over on her bed. She pushed her hair back, finally relaxed. She reviewed the events of the night, which were already slipping away from her. She stared into the pools of water in her hands, seeing them drip away before she could catch them all.

She recalled the dialogue in her dream. But it was lodged too far back. She couldn't recall the exact words or emotions, except that it had been two women, and her family name had been brought up.

What did that mean? She thought.

Her eyes focused on the bottom of the stairs, slanting down towards her feet. The shadows caressed each plank. If moonlight was there it would have hugged frame and glistened on the cobwebs like raindrops.

Amira reached for the door, which was easy to do since she was a tall girl in a very small room. She twisted it and met a threatening _clink. _It was locked. Amira sighed. They didn't trust her. Not after ten years of her doing nothing to earn their distrust. Except have darker skin and hair, and have a father who changed his last name to "fit in" but still gave her an unusual first name.

She didn't hate it, no. Amira wasn't one to go into blind rage against someone she had never met. He surely had his own reasons. And, she had gone to the library and looked up the meaning of her name. It was Arabic, no surprise, and it meant "princess" or, in a way, "queen". It was grandiose, not necessarily very powerful. But it's a person that makes a name not a name a person.

During that same trip she attempted to find news articles from the car accident day. She found no obituaries to any Lily or James Potters. No news articles on accidents.

It was almost like they never even existed in the first place.

Which heightened the mystery: what exactly happened to the young couple that brought the mixed race, semi-religious girl into the hands of an uncaring aunt? Who would have brought her here in the first place? It would have been nicer to set her up in an orphanage.

She turned over and attempted to go back to sleep.

. . .

"Broke her damn leg." Vernon hissed at Petunia.

They exchanged a glance and then set their eyes on Amira, who was pretending to be preoccupied with the newspaper. She had listened to their conversation, and Dudley's tantrum before that on not receiving enough gifts, and the coos and awing that churned her stomach before that. She wanted to pinch Dudley's babyish face and drown him in the toilet. She sipped her orange juice angrily.

"You're going with us." Vernon said stiffly.

Amira looked up innocently.

_ I could stay home. _

The words were at the end of a diving board, bending their knees and poising to jump into the waters.

She could, and play on Dudley's computer, and maybe even take a walk. It would be peaceful. She would finally have some time to herself!

Then the words got dizzy and stepped back, slowing retreating down the later. She knew how quickly Vernon's face could go from undercooked bread hue to compressed plum shade.

Instead, she gave them an apologetic look and nodded silently. As if she was very sorry. She wasn't. She would get to go to the zoo. With Dudley. But still, the zoo! Amira restrained her excitement and concocted the look of grave sorrow as she exited the house.

Before she entered the car, Vernon roughly grasped her shoulder, avoiding her hair which he usually grabbed, and pulled her off to the side. He bent down, his moustache not far from her nose, and his breath still smelling of bacon, which she never ate. His beady eyes narrow and pierced through her.

"No funny business."

She nodded. Knowing full well that she couldn't keep that promise.


	2. Chapter 2

"I think her name's Hermione."

"What kind of name is _that_?"

"Probably some weird foreign name."

"Wouldn't doubt it. Look at that hair! Looks like a ball of black yarn."

"Does she even wash it?"

"I heard she keeps rats in there for science projects!"

Laughter, rippling through unfriendly crowds. Eyes swung like pendulums, from each other then to the girl who sat in the corner of the yard, buried too far in a book to care. Or to show that she cared. Her feet lolled out before her, toe over toe, lightly tapping to some unheard tune.

A group shuffled past, ignoring her. Another passed, this time not being so kind. Shadows crisscrossed over her. Hermione sighed, closing her book and setting it on her lap. She looked up, expecting to see the crew of girls named Tina or Mary or something, but instead she was met with a new face. Hermione gave this new girl a weak smile.

The girl sat down next to her. "Those lame bitches."

The word escaped her, sharp, and Hermione burst into giggles. She wasn't used to dirty mouths (her parents were dentists, after all), and this girl had unabashedly displayed a mark of friendship, too.

"I guess they have nothing better to do." Hermione said.

"I would have beaten them up."

Hermione looked the girl over. She was thin and lanky, looking a little like an insect with large glasses perched on her nose, making her eyes bigger than they should be. Her black bangs stopped just before her eyebrows, hanging like a neat curtain. The rest was clipped back with a pink ribbon. Looking from a distance, Hermione expected to see her as a doll - a perfect child.

But, you can't judge people like that…

"I used to get flustered." Hermione said. She was ten, with a good vocabulary.

"Yeah." The girl paused. "What's your name? Hermione?"

Hermione nodded.

"I'm Lucy." She held out a hand. Hermione took it, giving it a light shake.

At that moment, Hermione had a strange feeling like a big fish flopping around in her belly. It was wet and quick and flashing. This was her new friend. They would get through school together. Maybe Lucy was especially "gifted" too. Then they could get into the same universities. Then remain friends throughout their life.

It was only a few months until her eleventh birthday.

"You know," Lucy said, waking Hermione from her reverie.

"Hmm?"

"The bullies here aren't too bad."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. My sister grew up in Japan and she would tell me about how it was like there. Now it's still hard since her English still is accented and people can't always understand her. Anyway, she was telling me about how the bullies there, _ijime, _can be really, really bad. Life there is different. They'd do stuff like burn you with cigarettes they found or steal your clothes, which people do here too, I suppose. Sometimes they get the entire school to ignore you. Just like that, one day you exist, the other you're a shadow. You're not even a human or a living thing. Just another tile or splinter.

"My sister, she once got in a fight while in the bathrooms. A girl waited outside of the stall until she finished and walked out. She caught her by the rests and pushed her back against the door. 'What's that smell?' she said, or something like that, and then 'oh just you!' and would pinch my sister. She even showed me the scars.

"I'm not saying all people there are bad. People everywhere are or can be bad."

Hermione looked at her arms. No one had done that yet, to her. Usually she wasn't physically picked on. It came in waves. The girls would target her and mock her ruthlessly until a teacher intervened or they got bored. Hermione took the blows, rolling with the punches. Mostly because she didn't know what else to do, and knew that if she fought back she would get in trouble too.

Once, however, she was pushed aside. This was in public. She was with her mother at a pastry shop. She stood near the displays, wanting desperately to buy one of the twisted, flaky croissants.

An older kid brushed past her, knocking her over. Her mother rushed over and helped her up, chastising the boy. The boy shrugged and walked away. Hermione got very angry, then. She stared at the glass display on top of the table. Inside it were pretty cupcakes, designed with ladybugs and flowers. It began to tremble. The boy was meeting up with his mother, his hands in his pockets, looking dejected. As if this was the worst possible thing anyone could have done to him.

The display began to rattle. The bottom rocked against the table. The clicking grew louder. Heads swerved to look at it. Hermione, flushed pink, tightened her fists. She didn't know why, but it made sense what was happening.

The glass popped, like cracking an egg, and the cupcakes flew off the plate and splattered the boy and his mother. The woman yelled, suddenly turning on her boy and admonishing him for this. The boy stumbled back, insisting it wasn't his fault. His mother had none of it. She offered to pay for the cupcakes, but the woman at the cashier was too stunned to accept.

Hermione and her mother walked home like nothing had happened, since her mother decided that place was a waste of time.

Hermione stopped, realising she was remembering aloud. She met Lucy's eyes.

"You probably think I'm silly now." Hermione laughed, turning away.

Lucy shook her head.

"Sounds like the universe decided to help you."

Hermione felt the fish in her belly flop a little.

"What?"

"You know," Lucy waved her hands, indicting the entire universe. "The universe _decided to help you, _it twisted a little. Think of the universe like a fabric, right, and so you can pull at it to bring a needle on the other end closer. And if you fold it or twist it, it won't break. Not like wood."

It was time to head back to class. Hermione stood, tucking her book under her arm, and listened as Lucy tried to explain her pseudo metaphysics.

"It felt your injustice, judged the boy as cruel, and then it moved. Just like that. Kind of like a ghost."

"Huh." Hermione managed to say.

"Hey, it helps to have an explanation." Lucy smiled.

. . .

During the summer, Lucy called Hermione.

"Hey." Lucy sounded breathless.

Hermione stood by the phone, fingering its cord. "Hi." She had seen Lucy the other day. Did she want to visit again?

"Did you hear about the zoo?"

"What zoo?"

"The zoo where they keep animals."

Hermione wished Lucy could see her roll her eyes.

"Well, what about it?"

"The glass vanished."

"The what…?"

"The glass. It vanished. One second it was there, the next it wasn't."

"What glass?"

"The glass with the snake inside."

"Sounds dangerous." Hermione said, still confused. Her head throbbed with the effort her mother had made at braiding her hair. The puffy mane had refused to go down and insisted on standing up. So they resorted to tying it in a bun, with her scalp still stinging.

Lucy made a hum of agreement. "Sure, yes, but isn't that strange? The glass had to go somewhere."

"It could have broken."

"It was nowhere to be found! Remember Justine?"

"Yes." Justine was a mutual friend of theirs. Hermione had really spoken to her much.

"Well, she was there. She heard the women screaming. And apparently the person responsible for it was a girl, but she and her family hurried away before they could get them."

"A mystery, then!" Hermione said, excited.

"Well, no, because there is no real reason." Lucy paused. "Except that the universe does as it must."

Hermione laughed.

"I have to go. Talk later." Lucy hung up just as Hermione mustered up a quick good-bye. Hermione set the phone down and returned to her mother.

"Can we flatten it?" Hermione asked restlessly.

Her mother turned to her, touching her hair. "We can try. It might take until next year."

Hermione grunted and turned away, wounded.

. . . .

_"YOU ROTTEN GIRL!""_

_"WHY DID I EVEN TRUST YOU?!"_

_"I SHOULD HAVE LET YOU STAY HERE!"_

_"LESS DAMAGE!"_

_"GRUMBLE GRUMBLE GRUMBLE!"_

A sound kind of like a hiccup and a yelp escaped Amira, shortly following the snake incident. Really, she was in the right here. The entire trip was with Dudley and his weaselly friend poking her cheeks, pinching her arms, and tugging at her hair. They made a few insensitive comments, they laughed at her face, and then they had the audacity to pick on a poor snake. All it wanted was to go off and explore.

Speaking of, how did she understand what it wanted?

But that was not the right question to ask just then. She had currently to focus on not: rolling her eyes, crossing her eyes, saying a curse word, yelling, fighting back, and/or accusing Vernon of bad parenting.

She sat in the chair, taking several deep breaths. Vernon paced before her, his face an alarming shade of bruised apple. Petunia stood behind him, standing guard (as if Amira would run away), and Dudley was busying himself with ice-cream and television. Although he was not so secretly trying to listen in.

Vernon stopped and stood before Amira, throwing his mouth open, letting some spit fly, and continued to berate her.

"THAT IS NOT NORMAL BEHAVIOUR."

Normal behaviour. Amira held back sarcasm like it was fire ready to leap out of her veins and burn that flabby flesh off of Vernon's jowls.

Vernon and Petunia never really had much trouble proclaiming that Amira was not theirs. She looked different enough, with her gently sloping nose, dark hair, brown skin, and strange, glistening eyes. They could easily explain that they were taking care of Petunia's deceased sister's daughter.

Diversity. Outside Petunia bragged about it. Inside Petunia loathed every second. It was unnatural.

But that wasn't why they hated Amira, she had come to know. It was for all the weird things that followed her. From sitting on rooftops somehow, to her hair growing back too fast. Amira couldn't help it. Once, Petunia took her to have it shorn off. It was short, shorter than most boys' haircuts. Amira was ready to cry that night, curled up in bed with her poor hair gone. Even the hairdresser looked ashamed.

It grew back overnight, to the length it was before. Petunia grew so infuriated Amira was afraid she would grow wings and flutter off like an angry goose. Petunia decided to shave it off herself. The event happened again until Amira was certain Petunia would let her grow it out as long as she wanted (which wasn't "proper" length for a schoolgirl like her).

"We keep you in this house to protect you." Petunia said.

Amira stared at her. Petunia's lips were twisted in the ugly way again.

"You could be cleaning someone's floor, or cooking in a restaurant filled with rats, or worse yet: husband to some fifty year old."

Amira wanted to tell her that this was an unlikely event in England, and in the country where she could draw her bloodlines to. And it was _not _a joking matter. She clamped her lips shut, taking the insults like a good girl.

"Maybe we should let her do that." Vernon suggested.

"Give her a taste of what that life could be." Petunia agreed.

Amira froze. She imagined being sold off, to live with some man who looked like Dudley, but older, grosser, and fatter. She imagined having to dress nicely for him, to pretend to be happy so he wouldn't beat her, to obey every whim. Even if that meant standing by a stove while the heat threatened to melt her hands off, cooking endlessly for a man who was never full.

Her imagination swept her up in waves.

What if he was never full?

What if the imaginary husband didn't like her cooking? What if the sausages, which she would refuse to try, were always too dry or too chewy? What if the toast was always burnt? What if she couldn't do any of those things?

And so he decided he had his fill. Then he would invite her to the kitchen, talking nicely at first, beckoning her over. She would go over wordlessly. He would stare at her, his blond hair sticking to his damp forehead. "I'm hungry, woman."

"I made you food!" She would cry out. She would wish her mysterious powers would rise up and help her combat. Maybe make a broom whip out from the closet and thwack him on the head.

"Not enough."

And he would stick the fork right in her, and eat her!

She would be a pile of bones, set in a cupboard where other women's bones were.

Amira met Vernon's eyes, ready to ask him if he would eat Petunia. Not that she had much meat, but he could maybe make some broth out of her. (Why was this even in her mind?).

"That's completely stereotypical!" Amira blurted out instead. "Really, I know you're all worth rubbish, but at least have some form of human decency."

"To your cupboard." The reply was so fast she didn't think Petunia had heard her. She began to speak again but Petunia, who was flushed, stepped to the side and jabbed a finger towards her musty old cupboard. "Go. Now."

"Fine." Amira said, standing up in defeat, but refusing to give up quite yet.

She marched towards the cupboard and slammed the door hard enough to wake the innocent spiders. She plumped down on the bed and sighed, wishing deeply that something would come and help her. Maybe not save her, but just give her a little nudge in the right direction.


	3. Chapter 3

Amira stared at her ceiling, whispering dozens of _besmillahs _into the skies. She wondered if the dusty, greyed grandfathers felt that way. If, as they tapped at their rosaries, their words were nothing more than drops of sound rising into the heavens. Heard or unheard? Understood or dismissed? Amira shifted on her bed. The springs groaned.

She shut her eyes, reaching into the past. She grabbed a handful, pulled it towards the present, and relived it. This had become her coping method for staying inside the cupboard for so long. Her only breaks were the meals slid under the door or routine bathroom breaks in the morning and evening.

She felt like a prisoner.

A memory caught her attention. It was the first and only time she ever got to come in contact with her culture. Before, whenever she walked down the streets and saw a veiled woman, her uncle and aunt would make a muted remark. At least they didn't scream in terror. Like they did when an odd man or woman approached Amira and patted her hand, giving her curt and speedy vows, murmuring "the one who lived" under their breaths. It confused her. She wondered if they did it on purpose, in order to get her punished.

Then, there was that one time…

Amira and aunt Petunia were walking through the grocery store. Dudley was close to his mother, a lumpy roll of fat trundling along, and Amira lingered behind. She looked around the shop, fingering the tight braid Petunia had forced into her curled, unruly hair.

They turned a corner and Amira stopped. She saw what she believed to be the most beautiful woman in the entire world. The woman stood next to a tower of apples, holding one in her hands and examining it. Her manicured fingers slid over the surface. Her eyes were like olives, dark and deliciously black. Her lips were thin but sweet. A white veil clung to her head, giving the oval shape of her face prominence. She turned around, one of her feet rising from the floor, an elegant curve to the sole of her foot.

Amira approached her. Unabashedly blunt, as a child her age usually is, she tugged on the woman's blouse. The woman turned. Amira half-expected her to begin admonishing her actions, as Petunia does when a question is asked. Instead, the woman gave her a smile. A smile that clearly indicated that she liked children, and people really for that matter.

"Hello, girl." She said softly.

Amira smiled.

"Hi. You're very pretty."

The woman laughed. "Why, thank you!" Her eyebrows were smooth and curved.

Aunt Petunia looked around and shot Amira a burning glance. Amira shrunk, her shoulders twisting inwards. Aunt Petunia's scowl lengthened when she saw the woman.

"Is that your mother?" The woman asked Amira. Her accent was like honey. Sweet, singsongy, melodious.

"No. My aunt. She takes care of me." Amira whispered.

"Hm.. What's your name?"

"Amira."

"Princess."

"Huh?"

"Your name. It means princess. It sounds like mine, Amal. But my name means 'hope'."

"Amal…" Amira smiled.

"We are of the same culture." Amal crouched down to meet Amira's eyes. "Culture is like family. _Inshallah _you will never forget this."

Amira tried to repeat the word.

Amal grinned. "You will learn. Do you have your father or mother to teach you these things?"

Amira shook her head.

She still didn't know what happened to her parents at that age. They were dreamy, hazy distant figures. Dancers in a stage far, far away.

Somehow, in a manner of two minutes, Amal managed to tell her that word, _besmillah, _and embed it into her mind forever.

"Even if you do not believe in it, it is at least a word to remind you of the past."

Something crossed Amal's gaze, a knowing look. As if she knew who the-one-who-lived was, and had given her a secret key. Amira, who was not sure of God, and still wouldn't for a long, long time, tucked the key away.

Sitting up, Amira shook her head. How had she remembered this all so clearly? From the woman's eyes to the colour of her veil…

"Bathroom break."

Amira jumped, squinting at the half-opened cupboard door. Petunia stood their, her broom-like figure cutting into the light. Her severely pursed lips pointed towards her. Amira hastily stood, stumbling out of the room like a critter that hadn't seen light for days creeping out of its cave.

She shut her eyes, rubbing them, and letting her feet guide her.

. . .

"Mind if I sit here?"

Amira opened her eyes and stopped yawning. The train rocked with movement. She trained her eyes on the door. A girl her age stood their, smiling meekly.

"Go ahead." Amira pulled her trunk out of the way, removing her feet from the seat.

The girl walked in, tugging her luggage with her and setting it down.

"I'm Hermione Granger." She held out her hand. Amira shook it.

Hermione was a dark girl, with a mess of black curls and soft, beautifully coloured lips. A light smattering of freckles crossed her cheeks. Her eyebrows looked as though they had been painted on briskly but elegantly with a thick brush.

She sat down across from Amira and dug around her bag, retracting a thick volume. _Hogwarts: A History. _

So it was true. She really was escaping.

Amira closed her eyes and leaned back. She hoped the dark circles of exhaustion would dissolve before they arrived. As she drifted off to sleep, she started. She sat up and looked around.

Wait.

She had no memory of how she got there. But, she clearly knew where she was going and was already accustomed to the oddity. Her eyes met Hermione's.

"Hm?"

"I have a bit of a problem." She said.


End file.
